


Sentiment

by writer1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Banter, Drug Abuse, Fear, Friendship, Gen, Intervention, Love, Recovery, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:43:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28657419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writer1/pseuds/writer1
Summary: This is a very short bit of what I imagine happened before Sherlock met John.  A bit of Lestrade and Mycroft taking care of the turbulent younger Holmes and how he gets to become the world's only Consulting Detective.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Sentiment

“Ah, Christ.” 

The phrase is typical at best as most idiots tend to plead to their god when something doesn’t go their way. Not that it makes a difference. But the words themselves are soft and anguished and I can’t help but wonder what this person’s problem is. He’s probably lonely. The tone of voice combined with the dampened smell of cheap cologne and fetid coffee breath implies I’m correct. But more importantly, how do I know this? Wait -- nearly forgot. I’m a genius. 

All that thinking makes my head ache. Why does it bloody ache so much? And why is the room blurry? I feel fingers prodding my body and another muffled curse expels from my gentle assailant. Two warm hands ruck up the sleeves of my soiled jumper and pause on the inside of my arm. I hear my name said softly. Sadly. It’s hateful. The hands now cup my cheeks and a tanned face pops into view. I squint, determined to make my vision adjust. Finally, two very worried brown eyes that look like they’re being attacked by angry grey caterpillars materialize before me. I groan in pain and frustration. Mostly pain.

“Oh, don’t be such a drama queen,” the man snaps, then, “Come on, Sherlock. I’m here to take you home.”

I wave my arm, or at least I think I do, it sort of feels disembodied, “Nyah! ‘Mmh fihn. Go’way ‘Strade.”

This, of course, doesn’t work and a firm grip wraps around my arms. There’s a lot of shifting and tugging and --- oop! I’m flying!! I burble my lips like an aeroplane and startle, the noise confusing until I realize it’s me. This makes me giggle and Lestrade sigh heavily. He’s very close, this inspector fellow. Very close indeed. I again move my disembodied arm, this time in an attempt to push him away.

“Oi! Cut it out.” There’s a brief struggle. “Get your bloody fingers out of my mouth you silly git!”

We walk for miles until we reach our destination. I’m not entirely sure where that is per se, but I’m told it’s ‘the car’ to which I blather something about secrets and pathetic, but I dutifully follow on my legs. There’s two of them this time. 

Out of nowhere, the cold comes. I suck in the most painful breath known to man, which unfortunately allows the frigid atoms to sluice down my throat and into my transport turning my body into one large visceral popsicle. I try to tell the inspector this, but the idiot doesn’t understand. 

“Mahhhhhhgn!”

“Look, I’ve got to buckle you up, Sherlock. It’s the law.”

“Halwooooh!”

“Bloody hell -- would you just sit still? And stop tickling me.”

“Buh coh. Coh. Coh, ‘Strade!” 

“Yeah, and this is my best shirt. So just sit still and I’ll have you home and in bed in a jiffy.”

-

-

Consciousness comes and goes. Sometimes I’m in my mind palace while other times I’m awake. The latter is absolutely horrible and my stomach turns. Gentle fingers card through my hair as I vomit the contents of my stomach into what sounds like a bucket. There’s a ticking. _Tick. Tick. Tick!! TICK!_ It’s deafening and my head pounds in tune with the tempo like a jackhammer. I’m warm again but I’m trapped under something heavy. Two voices, equally annoying, argue over my floating body. 

“Are you sure he’ll actually do it? Not that he isn’t capable, I mean, he’s bloody brilliant but . . .”

“I will encourage you not to question me, Inspector.”

“Right, sorry. I just - well, I worry about him. What if it doesn’t work? What if he says no?”

“Then you are destined to join me in searching every drug den in the growing metropolitan area until we locate him and bring him home safe.”

The sound of dripping water sparkles behind my eyes like a rainbow peyote vision and I flinch at the cool press of flannel against my forehead. There’s a shushing sound close by that immediately makes me calm, my muscles tensing and relaxing to the strange hypnotic _tick_ that reverberates in my head. I don’t recall reaching out, but my hand connects with and stakes a loose claim on the arm next to me. This brings the fingers back to my hair. I like it.

“He’s lucky. You really care for him.”

“He’s my brother.”

-

-

It’s bright. The smell of over-priced aftershave and Mrs Hudson’s almond cake fills the room so substantially that they’ve merged to create their own person. I groan the groan of a man who’s walked a million miles in the desert with no water and barefoot. Then I grab my pillow and cover my face.

“Hello to you too, little brother.”

“ _Whyyyy_?”

“Because you self-medicate on black market narcotics until both your mind and body turn to mush, that’s why.”

I don’t care much for Mycroft’s holier-than-thou attitude so I throw the pillow at him. It misses and I immediately grope for the other one only to come up empty-handed. Another horrible sound makes its way from my body and, like the traitorous lump it is, it determines to highlight all my other physical misfortunes at once. The ache in my side, scratched knees, and bruised face remind me of the man who engaged me in fisticuffs then pushed me down the concrete stairs and proceeded to kick me in the ribs when he didn’t like my informing his boss of his embezzling activities for the past year. 

“Drugs!”

“Oh, come off it Sherlock. You reek of desperation.”

“And you reek of stale masturbation and badly kept secrets. Just humour me. Just this once.”

“Lucky for you, I have no charity for the pitiful.” 

The banter is rude but empty and eventually, I wrangle the ability to pull myself up to sit against the headboard and glare glaringly at my elder brother. My lips turn down at the pristine picture he presents in his bespoke suit with matching socks, perfectly folded pocket square, and tightly bound black umbrella that had the audacity to leak the now tepid London rain onto my wooden floor and leave a large puddle.

“What do you want, Mycroft?”

“To take care of you.”

“Pshaw!”

Mycroft frowns, “Fine. To offer you a deal then.”

This is considerably more intriguing and I perk up from my overdone manchild sulk to better listen to the details of this backhanded charade. Before he speaks though, the salt-n-pepper headed inspector walks through the door with two cups of hot tea like he owns the place. My eye twitches.

“Ever heard of knocking?”

“Nope.” He passes one of the drinks to my brother then looks at him and nods in a way I find suspect. “Mr Holmes.”

“Gregory.”

My brother’s face light up and he smiles at him -- ACTUALLY SMILES -- at the goofy constable. The two share a ‘moment’ and I nearly vomit at having to witness my brother _in action_. Not that there’s much left in me, but what I think may be acid rises up in my throat and hovers near the brink of ejaculating from my chapped mouth and all over the sweat-soaked bed sheets. Both men do a double-take of my condition. Lestrade stands arms stretched and legs akimbo like a startled fox, then quickly bends down and reappears with a small round trash bin clutched in his hands, watching while I hack through the bitter juice clogging my airways and swallow it down thickly. 

Mycroft frowns, “As I was saying. I have a deal for you.”

I smack my lips and frown, wondering what manner of thing died behind them and how I can get it out. “I’m listening.”

“I haven’t the time to babysit you anymore, Sherlock.”

I scoff and immediately gag at the smell, “Ugh. Gross. But methinks the posh twit doth complain too much. What’s a little CPR and stomach pumping between brothers?”

“Right, this isn’t funny Sherlock!” Lestrade stands livid, his body rigid and his eyes black with anger. I don’t think to ask what his problem is but I really hadn’t need to as my luck continues to prevail, and he continues to yell at me. 

“For nearly a year I’ve tracked you down and pulled you from some of the filthiest, most horrible dens this side of the Thames and every time . . . _every damn time_ it takes something from me! I can't do it anymore! Carrying your limp skeletal body in my arms. Feeling your ice-cold skin for a pulse. I never know what to expect Sherlock and it kills me.”

Not that I will ever admit it, but I do feel the slightest pang of guilt at Lestrade’s admission. Not that my extracurricular activities are any of his business, but for some inexplicable reason, since he first found me curled up on a dirty mattress on Plith Street, the older man has forged a connection with me and hasn’t let me alone since. I honestly can’t say when he and my brother met and I don’t ask. My eyes slowly move between the ignorant grey fox and the annoying ginger weasel only to finally settle on the latter. 

“So you intend to pawn me off on the lukewarm acolytes of Scotland Yard.”

“More specifically, Detective Inspector Lestrade. He can use the help and I volunteered your services.”

“Hey!” Lestrade complains but is ignored.

“So what’s this deal then?”

I’m beginning to get impatient and Mycroft can see me getting fidgety. But knowing I’m in no fit state to be storming off, the git still takes a moment to sip at his tea and contemplate cake, or something equally dull and sad, instead of getting to the point. Another interminably long minute passes where I imagine urinating in all his shiny Tom Fords before he finally continues.

“You work cases with Gregory and remain sober, and I will give you full access to your trust early.”

This offer gives me pause. I’m set to come into the money, nearly two million pounds after numerous stocks and deals made by Mycroft, when I turn twenty-five and although I’ve never been one to care much about money, I would enjoy a bigger place. As if to verify my thoughts, my eyes glance over the state of my single bedroom flat dotted with odd-smelling experiments covering every surface, some wrapped in fast-food paper. The kitchen isn’t much better with the sink filled to the brim with a gloopy organic liquid that’s thickened nicely for two weeks now. Caution tape covers the door to the loo. 

“There will be no drugs of any kind for three months before I will release the funds. Bear in mind, I can revoke your access if you renege on our arrangement. In the meantime, Gregory is the only one willing to work with you at the Yard so I suggest you be on your best behaviour.”

At this, I look up at Lestrade and smile wickedly. “You agreed to this?” The inspector nods. “And you’re prepared to deal with me out-performing your pitiful team in public? You’ll handle looking like an idiot as I easily point out the obvious and deduce every single mistake you've made? You’ll stand looking ridiculous as I far supersede any tiny intellectual sprouts you’ll manage and allow me to flawlessly execute your job without a fuss? You can handle this?”

The DI sits down his teacup and holds out his hand, his eyes clear as he quirks his lips and nods. “I’ll take your bloated ego and your barbed words all day long so long as you stay clean.”

-

-

Just over two years later, I stand outside the flat owned by my long-time friend and woman who owes me a favour, Mrs Hudson. My brother, true to his word, released my funds after the three-month deadline and, to my own surprise, I successfully stayed off the drugs - well, minus one incident that was thankfully understood and since then forgiven. But now, I’m at the top of my game and ready to move on to bigger and better things, starting with a new flat.

I haven’t been here long when a black cab pulls up along the curb. Inside is a short man in a hunting jacket with leather shoulder patches and a shock of dark blond hair. I wait patiently as he exits the cab and uses his cane to limp his way toward me.

“Hello.”

“Ah, Mr Holmes. Good to see you again.”

I smile, “Call me Sherlock, please.”

  
  



End file.
